


Chapter 10: Grand Larceny and a Cheese Sandwich

by dc_comic_girl



Series: The Story of Mickey Milkovich [10]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Gallavich, M/M, POV Mickey, POV Mickey Milkovich, Protective Mickey Milkovich
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-24 17:56:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20018650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dc_comic_girl/pseuds/dc_comic_girl
Summary: Mickey's first day working at the Kash and Grab is a little more eventful than he expected





	Chapter 10: Grand Larceny and a Cheese Sandwich

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, that summary's bad. I don't know. I'm tired. Second chapter in one day. If you still were drawn in, I hope not to disappoint. 
> 
> Characters and dialog not owned by me. Opinions held by characters in the story are not necessarily held by the author (me). 
> 
> Thank you to any readers, old and new, for sticking with me this far! Enjoy!

By the time Mickey and Mandy got home, it was nearly 6 in the morning. Mickey’s body was desperate for sleep, having been awake for nearly 24 hours, but almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, Mickey found himself waking up.

In juvie, inmates were woken up by 8 a.m. every morning, and, to Mickey’s absolute revolution, it appeared his internal clock had acclimated.

He lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, and, even through the fog of his fatigue, Mickey could feel the relief at being in his own bed, in his own room, without some snoring fatso sagging the top bunk mattress above him.

He was willing himself to go back to sleep, when he heard his phone buzz on the pile of clothes on the ground next to his bed. Mickey blinked down at the floor, adjusting his focus, and saw a message lighting up the screen.

The message was from a number unlisted in his phone book, but he knew it by now to belong to Ian, or rather, the Gallagher family as a whole.

As far as Mickey could tell, the Gallaghers all seemed to share one shitty phone. This was a source of frustration for Mickey for two main reasons. Firstly, because this meant that he was completely at the mercy of when Ian did or did not have the cell phone. Now, this didn’t upset him because of some secret urge to spend his days and nights texting Ian fuckin’ Gallagher, or some shit like that. Mickey didn’t really like talking to people, and he felts phones in general were a fuckin’ nuisance. But it did mean that Ian was the only one who could initiate any kind of rendezvous via text, lest Mickey run the risk of sending some kind of suggestive text to Ian’s older sister, or worse, Lip.

Lip was, of course, the second source of frustration. Because Mickey knew that Ian shared his phone with his older brother, he also suspected with reasonable certainty that the same phone had been used more than once to text Karen Jackson in an attempt at seduction. The piece of shit phone may even hold pictures of her tits, if Lip had balls enough to save them. Every time the number showed up on Mickey’s screen he thought about the same number showing up on Karen Jackson’s with the same kinda messages, and he just did not care for that shit _at all_.

Today’s message, however, didn’t appear to be anything rated higher than a G and Mickey couldn’t tell if he was relieved or disappointed.

The message simply read:

meet me at store ASAP

* * *

By the time Mickey was actually able to drag his tired ass to the Kash and Grab, it was nearly 9 o’clock. He was operating on a 2 to 25 hour sleep ratio, and he had yet to eat or have any coffee. He figured he could probably swipe a red bull and a donut from the store once he got there, since Ian was the only one working and it was at least 80 fuckin’ percent his fault Mickey was a sleep-deprived zombie today.

As soon as he got near the store, Ian ran out to meet him, trademark goofy grin on his face. He flung a black dish rag at Mickey’s face.

“The fuck?” Mickey asked groggily, pulling the cloth off his face, and glaring at the red head. He had hoped for at least a fuckin’ coffee, but instead he was being accosted?

“I talked to Linda,” Ian said excitedly, practically bouncing on his toes.

Mickey blinked a couple times, trying to understand what this was supposed to mean to him. Choppy memories of a conversation from the night before started to come into focus. He looked down at the dish rag in his hand and realized it wasn’t a rag at all. It was a black wind breaker jacket. On the back, someone had ironed on the letters **S E C U R I T Y** and sewn on a lapel badge with the same word. Based on the pride beaming off Gallagher, Mickey suspected him of both.

“She says you may have to work the cash sometimes, but mostly you can just stand there and scare people off,” he explained, searching Mickey’s face for a reaction. Mickey wasn’t even sure when Ian found the time to make this jacket since he’d last seen him, but then, Ian probably hadn’t spent an hour of his fuckin’ life carving his junkie mother’s name into a tree.

“The shirt her idea?” Mickey asked, raising an eyebrow and running a thumb over the badge.

“No…well…it was mine. Figured it was the easiest way to get you to agree,” Ian shrugged. “Plus I got to practice sewing on a badge. I’ll have to do that a lot in basic training.”

Mickey rolled his eyes, but pulled the jacket on and rolled up the sleeves. He held up his arms and raised his eyebrows as if to say, “Fuckin’ satisfied?”

Ian seemed to be.

Mickey walked past him into the store. The back-garage door was open, and Lip was rushing around the back, grabbing cases of pop and ice creams. Between the lack of sleep and the culture shock at suddenly being a part of the work force, Mickey found himself wondering if this was some kinda grand larceny scheme he was expected to stop in his first 4 minutes of employment.

“Eh, the fuck you think you’re doing?” Mickey called, and Lip turned to look at him. He gave Mickey the same look you’d give to a pig wearing lipstick.

“What the fuck are _you_ doing?” Lip asked, not even attempting to hide his amused smile.

Mickey ran his finger under the security badge, indignantly.

Lip looked like he was going to make another snide comment, but Ian broke in.

“Lip and Kev run an ‘ice cream’ truck during the summer,” Ian explained. “They buy beer and popsicles in bulk from Linda and sell them off.”

Mickey had to admit, it didn’t sound like a bad scam, and he was slightly impressed. He carefully kept his features indifferent. He was pretty sure Lip couldn’t stand for his head to get much bigger.

Ian went back behind the counter, and Mickey pulled a magazine from the rack, opening it up and throwing it on the counter.

Suddenly a blue and orange children’s walkie talkie sitting on the counter next to Ian crackled, and Mickey heard Linda’s voice through it.

“Hey, Ian, bring me up a cheese sandwich. Cheddar with hot mustard.”

“You got it,” Ian answered, dutifully.

Mickey eyed the camera in the corner of the store, aimed down at them. Big Brother was watching – or, in this case, Big Hormonal Muslim Skank was watching.

“And tell Mickey that a packet of gum goes missing, he’s gone,” the walkie talkie crackled again. “And tell your Good Humor buddies that I’m keeping tabs on how many cases they’re moving, so don’t get cute. I know my inventory.”

Mickey saw, out of the corner of his eye, two brats check around them and then start shoving chocolate bars and candy into their pockets and under their shirts.

“Alright, we’re taking six cases of beer, Linda,” Lip yelled into another camera, pointed at the freezers.

“You two can put that back, or I can crack your skulls on the pavement,” Mickey offered good naturedly to the boys, without turning around. He heard the boys quickly empty their pockets and bolt out the door, and he smiled to himself.

“Can you and, uh, Sergeant Slaughter over here help me out with some cases of pop,” Lip asked Ian, throwing a thumb over his shoulder, towards the garage door.

“Yep,” Ian responded, and Mickey closed his magazine.

“Hey!” Mickey called after Lip. “You want me to get you some blow? Uppers? Downers? Special K?” He felt obliged to at least ask. If Lip was going to do the leg work of selling, it would help him bring in his share to Terry, while still allowing him his new upstanding, blue collar career.

“Uh, you know, thanks Mickey, but, um, we’re keeping it pretty old school. You know, beer, joints, cigarettes, that kinda thing. No one under fourteen,” Lip responded, picking up a box of pop.

“That’s giving up a big market,” Mickey shrugged, depositing his own cases of pop into the back of the truck.

“Helps keep my conscious clean,” Kev chimed in from inside the truck.

Mickey rolled his eyes but dropped the subject.

“Hey, Ian?” Lip asked, pulling a wad of cash out of his pocket. “Can you have, uh, Linda order some more of those Rocket Pops? They’re moving well. And, um, keep it up with those geometry theorems, alright? We’ll hit ‘em tomorrow.”

Mickey’s ears instantly perked up at the mention of geometry theorems.

“Will do,” Ian responded, taking the cash. Lip slapped him on the back and Ian shut the garage door.

Mickey racked his overtired brain, trying to remember why Ian was studying geometry theorems. He remembered Ian mentioning something about it last night, but couldn’t, for the life of him, remember why he was spending his summer doing fuckin’ _math_.

_I’m tryna get into West Point._

“Geometry theorems? For the army?” Mickey asked, looking over his shoulder at Ian.

“Artilleries, mortars, bomb trajectories. It’s all geometry,” Ian responded. “I mean, it’s confusing at first, but, put in enough hours, you study hard, you can learn anything.”

Mickey wasn’t exactly sure he agreed with that sentiment, but before he could respond, a voice cut through their conversation.

“So not true,” Frank Gallagher interjected, walking up the centre aisle, arms full of groceries. “Sometimes effort does not enhance ability. Study if you must, but if it doesn’t stick, move on. Focus on something you’re good at.”

Mickey watched Ian out of the corner of his eye, pull out the makings of Linda’s cheese sandwich, attempting to ignore his father’s diatribe.

“Put this on Dottie Coronis’ account,” Frank added as an after thought to his proclamation, while piling the groceries into a bag.

“We don’t have accounts, Frank,” Ian responded, more exasperated than angry. Mickey suspected most of the Gallagher children had gotten used to tuning Frank out long ago. You would fuckin’ need to.

“I’m just the errand boy. Gave my last cash to Fiona.”

Ian fixed his stare on his father, disbelievingly. 

“Dottie’s dying,” Frank explained, waving his arms dramatically. “You know where her house is.”

“$19.06.”

“She’s in trouble. She’s gonna die next week. When that happens take it out of her estate.”

Mickey had had enough. Ian wasn’t making any movements to get up and stop his father, and, to be completely honest, Mickey was getting tired of hearing Frank’s voice.

The unkempt man began walking towards the door, and Mickey moved into position, squaring his body right in Frank’s way.

“Hey, Frank,” Mickey spoke up, brightly, with a tight-lipped smile. “Why don’t you check your pockets again? Maybe you missed something.” His voice was pleasant and non-threatening, but he was pretty sure Frank got the message all the same.

It took Frank a second to shake off the initial shock of being interrupted. Mickey realized how rarely his kids must fight back against his jackass-ery anymore. He must have worn them down.

“You work here now?” Frank finally asked, conversationally.

“Trial basis,” Mickey smiled back. He could see Ian out of the corner of his eye, staring down at the counter.

Frank stared at him for another beat, before raising an eyebrow. “You know what, Mick? You may be…” The man fished around in his pocket before producing a twenty dollar bill. “Look at that.”

Mickey narrowed his eyes, glaring at the man, as the drunk slapped the twenty on the counter.

“That should cover it,” he said to Ian, before turning back to Mickey.

“Hey, have a great sabbatical from your incarceration.”

Mickey smirked at the insult. Frank was quicker than most people he knew in the south side, and never hesitated to throw a dig at someone. It reminded Mickey a lot of Lip. The thing was, Mickey didn’t really give a shit what Frank had to say. He was a washed up drunk, and all the brains in the world weren’t gonna change that.

“That the kind of leadership you plan on bringing to the army?” Mickey asked, picking another magazine off the rack and throwing his thumb over his shoulder towards Frank.

“Said last night’s bottom,” Ian scoffed, putting the twenty in the register.

“Whatever,” Mickey responded, flipping through the magazine. “Liking what I like don’t make me a bitch.”

He stole a look back up at Ian and saw him smiling, while making the cheese sandwich. Satisfaction that he had successfully warded off Frank from mooching off his kid filled Mickey’s chest with pride. He continued to watch Ian for a few seconds longer before Ian looked up, catching him.

“So, what?” Mickey asked, trying to divert attention. “Boy genius helping you study?”

“Yeah,” Ian responded, pulling apart a piece of cheese from its plastic wrapping.

“He know _why_ you’re takin’ all those summer courses?”

“Yeah, we talked about it and he said he’ll help me get into West Point,” Ian responded, distractedly.

 _What the actual fuck, Gallagher?!_ Mickey thought, clenching his teeth. Ian’s siblings were supposed to be the fail safe against this stupid military dream, not hold his hand through the goddamn application.

Mickey looked back at his magazine, flipping pages furiously, failing to take in what was on the pages.

“Think he’s right?” Ian asked, his voice hesitant.

“Who? Your brother?” Mickey asked, keeping his eyes focused on the magazine.

“No,” Ian hesitated before continuing. “Frank. Do you think Frank’s right about sticking to what you’re good at?”

Mickey snorted, not bothering to look up from his magazine.

“Frank doesn’t know shit.”

Ian was silent for a minute, spreading mustard on bread.

“I’m not smart like Lip,” he said, almost to himself.

 _No one’s smart like Lip_ , Mickey thought. _Including Lip_. 

“Do you think Frank’s right and I can’t do this?”

Mickey finally looked up from the magazine. Ian was staring at him with big pleading eyes. Mickey could end it right here. He could tell the kid to give up on West Point. Stop trying to chase down a dream that’s gonna get him killed. He could agree with Frank and, judging by the look in Ian’s eyes, he would probably listen.

Mickey opened his mouth, intending to tell Ian that not all dreams can come true and that fuckin’ sucks but it’s a part of life and you either gotta deal with it or off yourself. It was time for a fuckin’ reality check, and if Mickey had to be the bad guy, well…

“You’re plenty smart,” Mickey mumbled, looking back down at the magazine.

He peeked up to see Ian smiling again. He seemed like he was about to say something, but the walkie-talkie buzzed.

“Ian! Sandwich! Now!”

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, hope you liked it. Sorry for any grammatical errors. I'm hoping to post again soon, but please feel free to read the other stories in this series (they're all connected and I apparently didn't know how to make one story with chapters), and check out my tumblr @dc-comic-girl for updates on new chapters, or if you just want to talk about Shameless.
> 
> Please comment, I read every one of them! :)


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